Page 36 of Fruit
“Unfortunately, that attitude isn’t uncommon. Joshua has his mom, at least.”
“Yeah, he mentioned her. I was just wondering…I mean, shouldn’t we do something? Like, we have no idea what this guy is saying to Joshua,” I say. Sebastián laces his hands together, looking at me.
“What would you have us do?”
“I don’t know. Tell someone?”
“So. Each time one of the club members shares something with us about someone saying something cruel, we should break their confidence and tell someone? What would that really do, except make them never share anything with us again?” Sebastián asked. I looked away, shrugging.
“I don’t know. I just…I don’t know.”
“I get it, Iva. But—I know you call them kids, but they aren’t. Not really. They’re used to decisions being made for them and being told who they are and who they can’t be. If they are in danger, or putting somebody else in danger, then absolutely we need to tell someone. But if they come to us and share something hurtful that happened to them, we can’t step in and decide who to tell. We need their permission. I get that it’s not without problems, but it’s the lesser of two evils. We need these young people to talk to us. To feel safe here. We have to be bound by an agreement of confidentiality.”
“But, like, what if, like you said, they’re in danger? Like, if Joshua comes and says his dad is hitting him—”
“Then we’ll contact social services. If we see someone is actually being put in danger—if the parents are abusing drugs and alcohol and this is clearly leading to neglect or abuse, if there is physical abuse, if there is verbal abuse and this is leading to a level of emotional impact dangerous to them—”
“But who gets to decide that? Who gets to decide what kind of verbal abuse is bad enough?”
“It’s about what will keep the young person the safest. This isn’t like in the movies where social services swoops in and takes the kids away at the slightest. There’s actually quite a high threshold for when social services becomes fully involved. It may not be fair, but they’re underfunded and overstretched. So, it’s about contacting them when you know they will step in and do something, because if not, next time something happens, that young person won’t tell you. We need to provide them a space where they can go to be safe, from both others and themselves. We can encourage the young person to contact an appropriate service, be it social services or a mental health service. But, unless they’re in danger, it has to be a joint decision with the young person.”
I sigh in frustration, glaring at the desk. “Doesn’t feel right,” I mutter, but go on before he can say anything. “I get it, though. Like, I get it. I just…wish people weren’t so shitty to their fucking children.”
“Yeah. But, if you do think someone is being abused, Iva, be it physically or emotionally, come to me, and we can have that conversation with the team and the young person. Do you think this needs to be escalated?”
“Not…right now, probably. I have no idea what the dad said. But…maybe keep an eye out? On Hugo too, he’s a good way to tell how Joshua is doing.”
“Okay. If anything else happens, come to me, okay?”
“Okay,” I agree, feeling a little more settled. It’s disquieting to let some of the young people go at the end of the night without knowing if they’re going somewhere where they’ll be safe. But Sebastián is right. If we reported every parent who said something homophobic to their kids to social services instead of dealing with it ourselves, there would be no more young people left to look after in the club.
I look at Sebastián and wonder what’s led him to this place. All the other volunteers belong under the LGBTQ classification in one way or another. Jasmine is male-to-female transgender, Jackson is gay, I’m bi as fuck. But I’d heard in casual conversation that Sebastián is straight. Not that straight people can’t run LGBTQ centres, but it has to be rare, right?
“What?” Sebastián says after a long moment.
I shake my head. “Nothing.” If he tells me, it’ll be his own choice.
**********
I don’t smoke a lot. It’s only every now and then, when the blue moon rises, that the urge strikes me. It tends to happen more in summer, for some reason, which seems a little counterintuitive to me. Like I want to add to the thickness of the air, the way everything moves a little slower, languid in the bright sun.
I peel an orange carefully. I do it with my fingers, burrowing them under the skin and pulling. Small fireworks of liquid spray out, filling the air with the sharp scent of the fruit.
I fan out a few pieces on a small plate. I go over to the open window where Nina is already looking out. I sit on the window sill, my back against the frame. I follow her gaze and watch a bird fly in the blue, as if it, too, has nothing more to do but enjoy the air.
I slide out a cigarette from the crumpled packet and catch it between two fingers. I throw the packet towards the couch before putting the cigarette between my lips and lifting the lighter. I cup a hand around it, protecting it from the slight breeze. I run my thumb sharply down the wheel.Shnick. A flame appears. The end of the cigarette crackles in a rustling sound as I inhale.
It’s always a bit of a rush after not doing it for so long, my blood pressure rising in a way that feels like a drop. I look out at the city. I exhale.
With the taste of smoke in my throat, I pop an orange segment into my mouth. I couldn’t say why I like it so much. I hear smoking dulls your sense of taste, but the flavour of the orange seems heightened to me, sharp by contrast. The dizzy dryness of the smoke and the awakening acidity of the orange chase each other.
I lean my head back against the window sill and savour the juice, the breeze, the way Nina licks her paws from the corner of my eye. I look at the sky and watch the bird soar.
